


Darkest Dungeon: Heroism

by SwallowDen



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 13:23:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13571442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwallowDen/pseuds/SwallowDen
Summary: A tale of the hamlet and those that call it home: a tale of the attack that almost burnt it all to ashes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I should say, this follows directly after Merriment and Mourning. Once I've got the chance, I'll go back and add a kind of order to each of my stories.

It was a chilly autumn morning, and the hamlet was at peace. Dew dripped from rooftops, and house windows fogged over from heat and moisture. The inn’s sign gently swung, disturbing the silence with a quiet whine, doors sealed after last night’s festivities. In the attached stable, horses filled the air with rhythmic snoring. At the centre of the square, the old master of the estate stared across the horizon, his silent contempt forever captured in stone. Despite all efforts, his form could never be removed, only temporarily hidden. But on this pleasant morning, the air of menace that usually surrounded the statue had lifted, if only a little.  His features seemed less hateful, and more sad: mourning, not plotting. For a moment, the hamlet almost felt like another place: a quaint holiday destination, perhaps, or the venerable estate of a genial nobleman.

The crier watched over all of this, a battered pocket-watch in one bloated hand. As much as he enjoyed the peace, it could not last forever: the sun was rising rapidly, and the day had no patience for stragglers.  It was time to get back to work. He snapped the watch closed, placed back into a pocket of his straining waistcoat, and walked into the square. Past the guild, where even now he could hear the movement and muffled shouts of warriors training. Past the wagon parked nearby, curtains drawn and staircase folded away.  To the statue, and his customary place just in front of it. As he had done for a hundred mornings before and probably a hundred mornings after, he supressed a shudder as he walked past the cold, carved monument. Having reached his place, the crier thumped his chest, twice, coughed into his closed fist, twice, took in a deep breath, brandished a brass bell, and began to swing and roar with equal gusto.

“Hear ye, hear ye! Tis the year of the Light 1716, day 25 of October! After much discussion, farmers have banded together in security and prosperity and produced a bumper crop! Produce stalls shall be set up at the square at 12’o’clock sharp! The caretaker continues to seek-“

A cold hand grabbed the crier’s ankle, and his basso roar immediately degenerated into a high-pitched shriek.

“How much do I have to pay you to shut the hell up?”

Trembling, the crier slowly looked down. What he had at first assumed to be a ragged pile of clothes was a man, peering up at him through bloodshot eyes. A tattered, red scarf was tightly wound around his throat and mouth, and his short black hair stood up in every direction. Recognizing him, the crier relaxed a little, then frowned.

“Good morning, sir. Have you considered a more comfortable resting place?” The highwayman winced, clutching his head.

“Please. Just stop talking.”

“You understand that as town crier, talking is my sole means of living?” The crier replied, bending down.

“Then I would prefer you cease living.” With that threat in place, the man slowly dragged himself up from the stairs where he had spent the night. He groaned, as a combination of the cold air and a recollection of the night’s previous events combined for a lethal cocktail. He remembered alcohol, plenty of it, and women, and a friendly sparring match with a bounty hunter. At this, he rubbed at his jaw and stuck his tongue into the gap where a treasured tooth used to make its home. An idea that could’ve only made sense when he was drunk: the man had an uppercut that could kill a god.

The crier smiled, seeing the man standing once again. “Welcome back to the living, Mr. Vatteville.”

Vatteville made a rude gesture in his direction, then trudged off to find a cure for his many, many ills.

…

In a tavern room overlooking the square, a blonde woman smirked and twitched the curtains closed. She had tried warning the highwayman from playing poker with an occultist, but in his pride, he had brushed her aside. And so he spent the night cold and alone, with cobblestone as a pillow, while she had spent it warm, comfortable and loved.  She hissed quietly as she slowly buttoned up an old, white shirt: bruises lined her body, both from her adventures beyond the hamlet and from far more recent escapades. She smiled, hearing movement in the bed behind her. All worth it.

“Do you already have to go?”. The brunette yawned, shaking her head and drawing her fingers through tangled curls.

“I go where the Heir pleases, Nathalie.” Now the thief turned and winked. “Doesn’t mean I don’t need to visit again.”

Nathalie smiled, then jumped a little at the sound of three firm knocks at the door. She looked back at the graverobber, nervously eyeing the dagger that had materialised in one of her hands. The blonde woman held one pale finger to her lips, then silently stalked across the room and yanked the door open.

On the other side, a scholar bowed deeply. Despite the early hours his form was impeccable: robes neat, turban folded perfectly and his magnificent moustache gleaming with oil. He stood up to his full height, politely nodding at the woman.

“Good morning, Madame Bassett. I trust I am not disturbing you?” Bassett smiled, discretely tucking the knife back into her belt.

“Not at all, Master Falaise. Have you slept well?” The occultist smiled cheerfully.

“Very well, madam. Victory always sweetens one’s dreams so.  I was wondering if you would have tea with me?”

Bassett paused for a moment, closing her eyes as images of the occultist’s fine, exotic blends danced through her head. She smiled, and nodded.

“It would be a pleasure. Just, bear with me a moment?”

Falaise inclined his head.

“Of course. I shall meet you at the bar”. He turned and strode down the hall, his fine robes swirling around him.

Bassett stepped back into the room. With swift, decisive movements she pulled on a grey coat that had been unceremoniously dropped on the floor, kissed a smiling Nathalie, and then, the final touch: a massive, battered grey hat hanging from a coatrack. She set it on her head at an angle and admired her reflection for a second. Satisfied, Bassett blew the girl a kiss and set out into the day.

…

“Crank could use some work.”

The blacksmith peered closer at the crossbow, chewing on his pipe thoughtfully. Finally, he grunted in acceptance.

“Aye, you’re right there.  Teeth have almost smoothened out. You wanna cut in new ones, or replace the piece entirely?”

“Replace it. Last time a repaired crank broke on me, shard almost took out my eye.” The blacksmith nodded and stepped into the storeroom, pawing through boxes of parts for an adequate component.

Meanwhile, the young woman took the opportunity to stretch, sighing in relief as her back clicked. She rubbed at her stinging eyes: a morning locked inside the smithy wasn’t exactly a fast route to healthiness, but she wanted to be certain that her weapon was in perfect condition before she was called back into action.

_Look after your tools, cub, and your tools will look after you._

She smiled to herself. It felt good, to follow her father’s instructions. One of the few things that made her happy that didn’t involve death or alcohol. So even if her eyes were red from smoke and her back ached from bending over her weapons and armour, she felt warm and satisfied.

“Try this one, girl. Should do the trick.” The blacksmith held out a dusty crankshaft in one large and stained hand. The girl smiled and plucked it from his palm, setting it into the crossbow. True to the blacksmith’s experience, the shaft fit perfectly. She shook her head in disbelief.

“How do you manage to find these parts?” The smith snorted.

“Been here a long, long while, girl.  Pieces like these are needed all over and selling them got me through some hard times. With the Heir back, don’t need to worry about starving no more, but now I’ve got plenty of pieces just left over. Good to see some of them find a place. “The arbalest nodded, then carefully began to dismantle the crossbow. The smith sat back, refilling his pipe with tobacco and watching her work.

He hadn’t known what to make of the girl when she’d first shown up at the hamlet. He’d fixed up the guest’s weapons and armour when they had the coin, but she was one of the first to actively hang around the forge.  He’d barely tolerated her at first: a young, dark girl messing around his forge, getting in the way and using his tools. But he noticed how much she cared for her possessions, a far cry from some of the other guests who returned with broken blades and dented armour and wordlessly expected the smith to clean up after them.  Over time, they had struck up a kind of friendship through a mutual love for craftmanship and respect. He smiled: He’d even gone so far as to offer some of his cherished tobacco.  How times changed, indeed.

“Mind you don’t scrape the channel, girl.” She rolled her eyes.

“You could call me by my name, you know.” The smith held up a hand to his ear.

“What was that? I’m an old man, you know, you’re going to have to speak up.”

Poussin chuckled and got back to work.

…

Far above, on a hill overlooking the hamlet, the monster known as Sauvigni sat in silent concentration. He had been sitting in the same position since before the sun rose, focusing on one simple task: breathing.  He would breath in through his nose, and gently let the air out through his moth, a smooth pattern that had now lasted for hours. Every time he felt the rage bubble up within him, his blood burn and his features change, he would focus all his attention on that simple act: breathe in, breathe out. Slowly the rage would subside, his emotions returning to total peace.

But the beast had its uses too. From his spot, Sauv breathed in the smells of the hamlet: smoke from a number of chimneys, roasting meats and baking bread, the harsh scent of antiseptic drifting from the sanatorium, the sour tinge of vomit and stale alcohol outside the inn. He heard the rustling whistle of a broom in the church, movement in the small camp behind him, the ceaseless scratching of a pen in the inn’s highest room, the sputtering wheeze of the town crier as he encountered a miserable highwayman.

But most of all, and most unnervingly, he could feel the pulse underneath him, in the very earth. A slow, deep beat, so heavy and so ponderous that it took great concentration to feel it. But everyone could feel it, even if only the unnaturally gifted could understand it for what it was. His eyes unwillingly opened, and he focused his gaze on the ruined manor that squatted on the cliff by the coast like some sleeping beast. Far below, in the darkness, a great heartbeat sounded again and again.

Someone stepped up to his side, and he quickly shook off the trance he had been in. The huntress nodded at him, and silently held out a small wooden bowl filled with clear water. Sauv bowed his head in thanks and accepted the bowl, gently lifting it to his dry lips. As stoic as ever, the huntress returned to her camp and continued to sharpen fresh arrows.

Sauv set the now empty bowl aside and attempted to resume his meditations. But for a moment, he felt an irresistible urge to walk towards the manor: to step off the cliff and land without harm, to make his way down countless stairs to another place, where he would serve a master that would always treat him with kindness and respect. He felt a whine building up inside him, a cry of longing and frustration, a cry that seemed to relight the brand on one side of his face. He grunted, and swallowed all of it, sending the beast back into his sub-consciousness. He coughed into his closed fist, and decided to move elsewhere. Some place where he couldn’t see the manor.

The huntress watched him go, eyes never blinking, sharpening arrow after arrow.


	2. Memorials and Messages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is another chapter: The next one should be up on the 18th. Guys, please don't forget to comment. I keep trying to get better as a writer, and any kind of advice is worth more than gold to me. Otherwise, just a simple "I liked this" can keep me buzzing for days. But most importantly, I hope you enjoy this. See you on the 18th!

The hamlet couldn’t survive alone: outside of a thick ring of tangled forest that served as a natural barrier, one could find a vast array of fields and farms. Each farm provided essential goods to the hamlet, in exchange for more than reasonable prices. This far from the manor, the surroundings weren’t perfect, but they were almost idyllic.

McCann’s wheat field moved slowly back and forth under a bright blue sky: a surprisingly pleasant day in the middle of the fall. A golden carpet of wheat shimmered in the sunlight, whispering as a gentle breeze pushed through the plants.

A man stumbled through the field, leaving specks of blood on shining stalks. He sobbed for breath, steadily moving forward in a staggering run. One arm hung limply, while the other clung to his chest, from where a stain had rapidly grown.  He was exhausted, but he couldn’t stop. He knew that the second he closed his eyes, he would never open them again.

He had to warn them. They had to know what was coming.

Panting, McCann ran on.

…

Bassett gently lifted the teabag out of the porcelain cup, setting it aside on a saucer. She held up the cup and breathed deeply, luxuriating in its scent. Taking a sip, she frowned in concentration: sweet and spicy at the same time, something like a dessert…

“Cinnamon?”

Falise nodded, grinning.

“Precisely.” Bassett took another long, lingering sip.

“Where did you get this blend from?”

“Ceylon. A colleague of mine was visiting, and brought back several boxes. Apparently, their cinnamon plantations are something to behold.” Bassett smiled to herself.

“They really were.” Falise raised one delicate eyebrow in response, and she laughed. “I was not always a criminal and a ruffian, master scholar.”

Falise opened his mouth and was interrupted when a door next to the bar cracked open. The burly form of a redheaded woman slowly came through the door backwards, grunting in effort.  As she came into the middle of the room, Bassett saw that she was dragging a man by the ankles: dressed all in scarlet, his gentle snores were accompanied by the quiet jingling of bells. The woman looked up to see Falise and Bassett, both speechless. She lifted one finger to her grinning lips, then continued dragging the jester through the bar. She kicked open the front door and pulled him out, the swinging door just barely missing his head. Throughout the moment, the bartender continued to silently clean a mug.

Falise turned back to the graverobber, who continued to stare in confusion and mild delight. He sniffed, bringing a teacup back to his lips.

“Well, at least there are some cultured individuals in this village.”

…

_The leaves are slowly dying, and there is a permanent chill in the air. It has been a very, very long time since I wintered in this estate: I think I was but a child then.  At least we are ready: our stockrooms are full, the roads are clear, for the time being, and there many able hands to keep the hamlet in order and the gold flowing._

_But sometimes, sometimes I wonder how long I will be staying here. I feel compelled to atone for my ancestor’s crimes, to bring an element of sanity and respectability to his estate once again.  But how long will that take? At first, I had no intention to spend the rest of my life rebuilding this place. Now, it feels like I was fated to do nothing else._

The heir placed the now-empty quill back into its receptacle, and slowly stood up from his chair. From the desk where he spent most of his time, a tall window looked out over the hamlet: even now, he could see the distant, rotund figure of the town crier performing his duties, while a barbarian carried the unconscious body of a jester with mischievous intent. Piece by piece, the village was waking up: services opening for business, citizens leaving their homes and going to work. He turned away from the window, examining the room.

A finely carved bed, now rarely used. A bookcase, filled to bursting with both his ancestor’s journals and his own, including some detailing the final hours of some unlucky adventurers. A wardrobe, hosting the clothes that he had brought with him from London. In one corner of the room, a globe, now shiny with dust. And at the centre of the room, a wide, square table with a surface fashioned out of marble. At the moment, a large drawing occupied it: of a set of tall, dark doors, carved with unidentifiable images. In a delicate, swooping hand, the sketch had been labelled as the Gate.

As the heir stepped towards the table, a familiar, trembling knock sounded on the door. He looked up.

“Come.”

The door creaked open, and a wretched parody of a man came inside. The caretaker had not been a very handsome fellow in his youth, but long years of service to the estate had transformed him into a shivering, permanently grinning wreck.  He bowed low before the heir, his forehead gleaming with sweat.

“Good morning, master. I trust you slept well?” He lifted his head, his fixed smile the result of a combination of a desperate need to please and shrieking insanity. The heir had attempted to persuade him to visit the sanitorium, but his response, a violent fit and screams about nurses armed with syringes, had put that idea to bed. The best he could do was to treat the man with kindness, while avoiding making any sudden movements.

“A good morning to you too, Yorick. And no, I’m afraid not.” Yorick giggled nervously.

“My mother always swore by warm milk and honey, master. I shall send a mug to your room tonight.”

“Thank you.  How are our guests? Have they all recovered from last night’s jubilations?”

“Most, my lord, but not all. Some have become, hmm, occupied and may be reluctant to partake in an expedition. I have the full list,” and he drew a tightly wound scroll from one tattered sleeve, “ here.” He placed it in the heir’s outstretched hand and bowed as his master pored through it.

“Thorel is pursuing a religious vision again? I could have sworn he’d been chasing those same dreams just last week. And Darell’s refusing to leave the brothel, how typical. Who else…” The heir continued reading, then paused, frowning.

“…Why is Maci in the graveyard?”

…

The old iron gates creaked as she passed through, and the sounds of the hamlet seemed to become muffled. A small, dark form in flowing green robes, the doctor slowly walked down a well-maintained path. Whatever his faults, she could not deny that the elderly madman was dedicated in his duties. She passed by grave after grave, looking over each with a clinical eye.

Some were simple affairs: A plank buried in the dirt, with the grave’s occupant detailed in roughly carved words: including the nature in which they died. Others were far grander: memorials fashioned in stone, marble and steel, dedicated to forever remembering the men and women who had given their lives in the dungeon.  She stopped, recognizing one. A finely decorated grave, bearing not just a name and details of his death but military honours: Beric, a veteran man-at-arms.

She knelt for a second, staring at the stone. He had given a life for hers, leaping in the way just as a fish-man’s spear sped towards her. The spear had lanced through his throat. She still remembered the last emotions that had flickered across his face: surprise, confusion, and finally, a weary acceptance. She stood up, then leaned forward, lightly patting the headstone. He had deserved better.

The doctor continued on her way, when two graves in particular caught her eye.  They were are the very end of the path: above them, a sheer cliff rose up, hiding the graveyard from the view of the manor that leered over the rest of the hamlet. She stepped forward, filled with curiosity. These graves were some of the finest she had seen so far: tall, made from black marble, and adorned with red banners. At the top of each stone, the spiked half-circle that represented the estate had been carved deep into the marble. Maci leaned forward, looking for details.

“Good morning, doctor.”

Maci froze.  She was too proud to jump in shock, but when in a silent graveyard, with mist threading the spaces between each stone, a sudden noise often required a large reaction. Instead, she slowly, carefully turned around.

The master of the estate stood on the road, leaning on a walking stick and watching her. He had been a young man when he arrived at the estate: Now, streaks of white ran through his hair and beard, and he had begun to increasingly rely on crutches and canes. He had politely declined offers of examinations from both the resident doctors and the specialists at the sanatorium: It seemed he believed that the rapid onset of old age was a condition of his inheritance of this cursed estate. A load of superstitious nonsense, in Maci’s humble opinion, but she wasn’t about to insult the man who provided her with food and a roof over her head.

She nodded to him.

“Good morning, sir.” As always, her voice was muffled under the white mask she wore.

“Isn’t it just? A tad chilly, perhaps, but I’m sure that will let up in time.” The man smiled. Maci stared. Eventually, his smile faltered.

“May I ask what you’re doing here?” He slowly stepped forward, his cane clicking against the white stones that littered the path. Maci frowned. How didn’t she hear him coming?

“Oh, just ruminating on the inevitable fate of all humans, sir. “

He frowned, scratching at his beard.

“Is that so? Not going digging again?”

Maci thought for a second, her hands flexing in her gloves. When she finally spoke, it came out in a torrent of words.

“Sir, there are more forms of death here than in anywhere else in the world. Poisonings, stabbings, heart attacks, and then there are the more unusual causes: causes which I still cannot identify. Performing proper autopsies would not only help us in future expeditions but could serve to benefit mankind as a whole! Please sir, if you could just-.” He was already shaking his head.

“No, Maci.” Her gloved hands curled into fists. He raised a hand in apology.

“Doctor, these men and women died fighting a threat unlike anything else in this world. They gave themselves, body and soul, for the sake of my own atonement. They endured great hardships, and in the end made the ultimate sacrifice to continue this campaign against the darkness. The very least I can grant them now is eternal respite, free of harassment. “He looked at her dead on, cool grey eyes trying to pierce through thick black goggles.

“Are we at an understanding?”

Maci nodded, and he smiled.

“Good. Then I shall leave you to it.” He began to turn, calling out behind him, “And for the love of God, leave Poussin’s rabbit alone.”

“Sir? Who were they?”

He stopped, shaking his head. Then he turned back, slowly walking forward until he stood by Maci’s side in front of the two ornate graves. He gingerly lowered himself, sitting cross-legged on the cool green grass.

“These two gentlemen right here?”

“Yes sir.” He moved around in place, getting comfortable.

“Well, why don’t you read out their names for me?” She gave him a blank stare, and he impatiently gestured towards the stones. She sighed, and leaned forward.

“Reynauld LaCroix and” she turned, squinting, “Dismas Montague.” She looked at him quizzically.

The heir had his chin in his hand, staring outwards. “My first men. The two brave boys who accompanied me here from London, and the first to experience with me the horrors of this place.”

Maci turned back to the graves. “How did they die?”

“They held on for so long, you know. As we rebuilt the hamlet, as we dug deeper into the estate, unearthing old chambers and new abominations. They were with us at the beginning of the end, when we finally found the gate. They crossed through, and then,” he sighed, “they fell.”

“Were they good men?” He smiled, nodding.

“Yes.”

“…Really?”

The heir paused for a second, then let out a burst of cracked, wheezing laughter. It echoed between the gravestones, sending a distant flock of birds soaring into the sky.

“Oh dear God, no. Dismas was a miserable cutpurse with a bad gambling habit; Reynauld was an angry soldier without any wars left to fight. I met them at a pub when I went to get stinking drunk after getting the letter.” He kept chuckling, slowly shaking his head.  Then his laughter stumbled to a halt, and he looked up at Maci, eyes narrowed.

“I’ll tell you something, though. They never ran. No matter what monsters I sent them against, no matter how dark a hole, how fierce a beast, they just kept moving forward. Maybe they’d seen the worse humanity had to offer, so nothing truly scared them anymore. Maybe they saw this as a chance at redemption, to make something of themselves. Hell, maybe they were even heroes.” Again, his lips quirked upwards into a grin. “But they never ran. Ever.”

Maci nodded.

“Wise words, sir. When facing insurmountable odds, I too shall endeavour to take the most suicidal approach.”

He glared at her, then snorted. Picking himself up, he started to walk back to the hamlet, cane swinging to and fro. With one last glance at the graves, Maci followed.

…

Noise and life filled the hamlet. Shopkeepers called out their wares, the blacksmith hammered away at an anvil, and horrifying sounds occasionally echoed out of the sanitorium. The only point of calm in the entire village was at the centre, where a jester peacefully slept upside-down, hanging from around the statue’s neck like a human medallion.

Across from him, Vatteville and the hellion stood, silently astounded.

“He has to be faking it, right?” Vattie said to the hellion, who he still couldn’t believe was called Brix.

“Maybe, maybe not. The spirit he drank was powerful enough to lay out any warrior, and he drank four bottles. “Said Brix, who continued to argue that her name was a powerful one, passed down from generation to generation.

“Merciful Light, why didn’t you stop him?”

“I tried. He said he had drank worse at the King’s court. I was curious to see if the little man was capable. It would appear he was.” She stopped as the jester let out an earth-shaking yawn. He stretched enormously, and finally seemed to notice his audience.

“Good morning, my lovelies. “He cocked his head to one side. “What a strange sight you are, with your heads and your feet having swapped places.” The jester looked up, observing his legs tangled around the grim, stone features of ancestor’s statue.

“Hmm, perhaps it is my sight that is strange. Not the best resting place I have ever chosen.” He gently unfolded his legs, twisted in mid-air, and landed with a flourish and a tinkle of bells.

Brix squinted at him, stroking her chin. “Vilon, are you human?”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no, my dear Brix. How about yourself?”

Brix opened her mouth to answer, when a deep, pleasant voice cut through the square.

“Ladies, gentlemen? Everything in order?”

The heir to the estate came walking down the main road, cane clicking against the cobblestone, Maci following closely behind. Brix clasped one fist to her chest and bowed, the jester Vilon followed her in mocking imitation, and Vatteville lazily saluted with one hand.

The heir nodded, smiling. “Well, then. Give me a moment to go over our maps, and I shall begin planning our next expedition-“

“I need a hand!” A voice barked.

Near the inn, where the cobblestone road turned to dirt and began to wind its way through the woods, a well-muscled man with a mop of ragged hair and a fierce beard came striding through: by his side, a long-legged hunting hound kept up easily. The wild man held another by the shoulders, a man so exhausted he was practically being dragged down the road.  

“Maci, go.” The heir said softly, but he didn’t need to bother: the doctor was already darting forward, one hand thrust into her ever-present bag. Brix had sprinted to the hounds-man: placing one brawny arm under the injured man’s other shoulder, the hellion helped bring him into the centre of the square, laying him down. Maci cut away the man’s blood-soaked shirt, revealing the hideous injury underneath: A massive v-shaped cut, slicing down from underneath each nipple and meeting just under the abdomen. As the man had run, he was forced to keep one hand against the cut at all times, for fear the movement would cause his guts to spill. Even now, blood continued to seep from his wounds. Maci immediately held a vial under one side of the cut, keeping up a running commentary.

“He needs more blood urgently. I have samples collected from the other guests, but I cannot mix poorly matched blood. I need to test his first, find the right type, but that will take time.” She looked up at the heir. “ I don’t know if I can save him.”

He shook his head. “For now, do what you can.” He turned to the hounds-man, who had folded his arms, uncaring of the streaks of blood that were staining his clothes.

“What happened?”

The man coughed once and began to speak in short, clipped sentences, his voice harsh and gravelly. “Bruno and I were patrolling the edge of the woods. He ran, barking. Must’ve smelled something. Found him barely conscious, leaning on a tree. Dragged him here.” He raised his bushy eyebrows. “Know him?”

The heir nodded distractedly, running a hand through his greying hair. “Terrence McCann. His family owns a farm near here. Maybe he ran into something foul near the woods.” He walked over to where Maci was probing the cuts with a scalpel, testing the extent of the damage. He leaned over the man, gently shaking him by the shoulder. “Mr. McCann, can you hear me?”

The man had been staring blearily into the sky, constantly mouthing silent words. Now his eyes seemed to focus, and he frowned in concentration.

“Milord? Is that you?”

The heir sighed in relief.

“Yes, Mr. McCann, I’m here. You’re safe now. Can you tell us what happened to you?”

The man closed his eyes, his forehead tensing in thought. Then a bolt of sheer, lunatic panic ran across his face, and he lurched forward, causing Maci to hiss in shock and dismay. He grabbed the heir in a cast-iron grip, and screamed, spittle flying from his mouth.

“Run, milord! Just run! Run!” The hellion and the hounds-man quickly ran forward, pinning down the madly writhing farmer. The heir winced, slowly peeling the man’s fingers off his neck.

“Calm down, McCann! I’m ordering you to tell me what happened!”

The man’s screams began to break down into helpless, sobbing laughter. He shook his head back and forth, babbling.

“They came out of nowhere, killed everyone they saw…locked the children in the barn, set it ablaze…they took Helena, shot my boy…only me they left. Only me. He left his mark on me, and bade me bring a message.” The heir frowned, and leaned closer.

“Who did? What message?”

Finally, the farmer seemed to calm down. He looked the heir in the eyes, and spoke clearly.

“They call him Vvulf. He leads a thousand men. They are coming to the hamlet, and they will burn everyone and everything in it. And he will lash you to the statue at the center of the square, and make you watch as it all turns to ash around you.”


	3. An Investigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocque and George go for a long walk.

“Well, that wasn’t intimidating at all,” Vatteville muttered in the sudden silence that followed. The heir glared at him.

“Go to the inn and fetch the occultist. He will help Maci in her ministrations.” The doctor looked up sharply at this.

“That snake charmer has no place in my-“

“Maci, I do not have the time nor the energy to care. You will save this man, and you will do it with all the resources we have to offer. Now go and grab whatever medicines or blood you need and meet Falise at the sanitorium. Brix,” the hellion perked up, “Take him there, please. Carefully.”

“With pleasure.” She said, slowly lifting McCann up in her arms. The three guests hurried away, and the heir stood up, rubbing at his temples. A headache was threatening to materialise, in more ways than one.

“George, I need you and Rocque to go to McCann’s village. Odds are this isn’t a psychotic break, but even so, I need you to check his story. Take a look around, bring back anything useful. Understood?”

“Where can I find him?” The bearded man grunted.

“Check the stables.” The heir winced, then, carefully; “Vilon? Spread the news.”

“With pleasure, master.” The jester bowed deeply, bells jingling, then scampered off.

The heir looked around the square. Where there had once been sounds of commerce and activity, now there were hushed whispers and concerned faces. He sighed deeply.

“Right.” He set off back to the inn, to his room, and to his papers.

…

“Rocque? You there?” George shouted into the stables. The horses whinnied quietly, stamping at the ground. George peered into the darkness, the air filled with the strong smell of animals, disturbed hay gently drifting in the breeze.

Out of the shadows came a man, walking silently and purposefully. His equipment was not polished, but not rusty either: well-maintained and securely strapped to his armour. His clothes were dark and practical, a combination of cloth, leather and iron. From the top, a hook-nosed helmet with an attached cloth cast his features in shadow. Everything was in its right place.

He did not look like a man who spent the night in the stables.

He walked up to the houndmaster, his head tilting. His voice was quiet and smooth.

“Am I needed?”

The houndsmaster squinted at him.  “Why do you sleep in a stable?”

“Easier to see people coming. Am I needed?” George grunted, nodding and stroking his chin.

“Aye, fair enough. Boss wants us to check out a village. Guy called McCann’s from there.”

“Terrence McCann. Wife Helena, son Jacob. From Stonebridge.”

The houndmaster raised his shaggy eyebrows. “You knew all that, just like that?”

“Pays to be prepared.” Rocque said.

“Too bloody right. Ready to go?” George turned towards the door, where his loyal hound was nervously eyeing the horses.

“Always”. Rocque moved up, adjusting the coil of rope at his side.

….

There was one main road out of the Hamlet, the Old Road, which connected the estate to the outside world. It was wide and dry, a combination of dirt and sporadic stone making for an uncomfortable, but clean path. But today George turned away from it, walking down one of the small tracks branching off into the woods. Small drops of McCann’s blood still decorated the earth.

As they walked deeper into the forest, the sounds of the hamlet became increasingly muffled. The light became dim, sunlight coming through in rays wherever there was a gap in the foliage. In the sudden silence, all Rocque could hear were their footsteps, the rustle of leaves in the wind and Bruno’s happy panting. The forest around them were covered in patches of shadow: thick undergrowth blocked his line of sight in every direction. He started to become nervous, turning his head back and forth, trying to keep every suspicious clump of vegetation in view.

“Relax, we just cleared out this path last week. And some of the boys and I patrol every now and then, showing off anything that tries to move in.” Rocque glared at the houndsman.

“I am relaxed.”

 George only snorted in reply.

The two walked on in silence, down a narrow and winding path. The dog occasionally disappeared into the bushes, sniffing loudly, before bounding back to its master’s side. Despite George’s assurances, Rocque still felt uneasy.  He had spent most of his life in cities: he was used to the feeling of cobblestone under his feet, the stench of humanity in the air and the constant sounds of industry. This frozen silence was alien to him: back home, the only times it got this quiet was when someone was about to step behind you and murder you for whatever you had in your pockets.

So it was to his relief when he spotted a growing gap between the trees, revealing shimmering fields and the blazing blue sky. His mood wasn’t even ruined by the sight of a tree marred by red handprints: evidently where George discovered the unfortunate McCann. His steady stride picked up a little, turning into a subtle sort of speed-walk. George watched him accelerate, grinning under his beard.

Rocque burst out of the woods, trying and failing to look too delighted. He stood in the sunshine, taking in deep breaths saturated with the smells of fertiliser, grass and the delicate but definite tinge of blood. Sighing, he noted that McCann’s passage was clearer than ever: in his haste to deliver his message, he had carved a deep trail through golden wheat fields, leaving behind trampled stalks and the occasional smeared drop of blood. Rocque looked back at George, who had just casually strolled out of the forest.

“Don’t know what I need you for,” He pointed a thumb back at the trail of bruised plants, “the man left a route right back to his village.”

“He didn’t leave a route through the forest though, did he?” George replied. Rocque shrugged.

“I would have found my way.” George snorted, pushing past the bounty hunter.

“Course you would’ve.”

…

The walk to the village was considerably more pleasant than the brief trip through the woods.  The sun had burnt through the lingering morning chill, and it was an unseasonably warm day. In the distance, birds sang. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, tempered here and there by small, fluffy strips of cloud. An occasional breeze took the edge off the heat, and as the two men and dog walked along the trail, it almost felt idyllic. A pleasant outing on a pleasant day. Even Rocque, who usually stayed wrapped in his paranoia like a comfortable old blanket, felt himself relax a little.

For a while the men walked on in silence, while George’s loyal hound kept a few paces ahead of them, nose to the ground.

“Don’t suppose you know why he ran through the fields?” George asked, scratching his beard.

“Fastest route to the hamlet. The village’s only road connects to the main thoroughfare: he would have had to run in a circle.”

“Ah.” And the silence returned, only to be interrupted by the dog’s excited barking. George raised his eyebrows at his companion, then hurried to catch up.

They had reached the edge of the wheat field, a boundary marked by a thin, trickling stream. A woman lay face down near the stream, her hair gently drifting in the current. Bruno had let out two sharp barks and now leaned forward, nose pointing at the body, his body vibrating with excitement but trained to remain still. Seeing his hound’s discovery, George cursed under his breath, then slowly walked forward, kneeling by the body.

The woman’s dress had been made blue with cheap dye: the water had washed it away, leaving one sleeve and patches of her torso bleached white. Her hair was long and stringy: years of arduous work and stress had worn it thin. He winced in preparation and gently lifted her head, grimacing as her pale, bloated features came into view. He checked her eyes and her cheeks, and as Rocque came to stand by him, he began to detail his findings in low, measured tones.

“She hasn’t been here too long. Maybe an hour or two. Starting to rot, but the water hasn’t shredded her skin yet. No signs of suffocation, no blood in her eyes: she was dead before she hit the water.”

Rocque nodded. “Shot in the back.”

George cocked his head to one side in curiosity, then turned to look. At the small of her back was a ragged hole: the wound had been washed clean by the stream, leaving only a pinkish stain and a torn dress. He hummed deep in his throat, standing up and wiping his hands on his jerkin.

“Seems our man wasn’t so crazy after all. We should keep moving.”

“Wise words.” Rocque said, neatly stepping over the stream. The men left the woman where she lay, her hair and one arm still trailing in the water. The sun shone on and the birds still sang, but something had been lost from the day. The two guests didn’t move any quicker, but there was a solemnity to their movements now: a feeling of trepidation for what would come next.

The village wasn’t too far from the stream. A small cluster of single-story buildings, mostly built out of wood with thatched roofs, the only rebels being an inn and a church at the centre and, at the far end, a massive barn that dominated the surroundings. One road cut through it, leading from the barn to an old stone bridge, from where one might find their way to the Old Road. The village was simple, unordinary: a place where farmers would spend their days in the fields, their evenings at home or at the inn and occasionally at the church, in times of spiritual or physical crisis. In their travels, George and Rocque had seen a thousand like it. There was only one key difference: the village was completely empty. The constant presence of Bruno’s panting had quietened, to be replaced by a quiet, near imperceptible growl.

Rocque gestured with his head. “Look at the doors.” Every building in the village had their doors hanging open: in some cases, they had been practically torn off their hinges. Scuff marks and bloodstains decorated each entrance. George stepped over to the nearest hut, whose owner brightened up the place with bouquets of dried flowers, carefully tied and nailed to the walls. He ducked inside, then called out.

“I see no bodies. Somebody spilled their dinner, though.”

Rocque nodded, adjusting the coil of rope around his shoulder, and muttered to himself.

“Hmm. Dragged from their homes, no real fight. One hundred and twelve villagers, with sixty-two men in fighting shape. Curious.” George joined him, stroking his beard.

“Probably outnumbered and outgunned. But why would they take all of them and shoot the girl?”

“She was at the stream,” Rocque said. “Trying to escape, didn’t want her to raise the alarm? But they sent on McCann anyways…” George shook his head.

“McCann was tortured and ordered to deliver a message. Girl made a break for it. Seems the gentlemen we’re dealing with don’t appreciate rebellion.” The breeze shifted, and George’s nose wrinkled. “Do you smell that?”

Rocque lifted his head, sniffing the air. “Burnt wood. Burnt flesh. Coming from…” the hunter turned his head, then pointed at the barn. “There.” The men began walking down the road, accompanied by Bruno’s constant growling.

As they came to the centre of the town, George pointed out more marks at the road near the bridge. Heavy footprints, and more importantly:

“Wagon tracks.” George grunted in reply.

“So they took them somewhere. So what’s that smell?” They both turned simultaneously to the barn. Up close, they could see it was on the more well cared-for buildings in the village: painted a cheerful green, frequently repaired and maintained. Also unusual was that its doors were only partially open: a chain had kept the entrance loosely sealed. As they came closer, other details made themselves clear. The wood was lightly scorched; thick planks proving too resistant to burn down.  The doors were especially damaged, with splintered cracks all along where the chain had been placed to keep them secure. Rocque suddenly froze and George frowned. Then he saw it, and felt sick to his stomach.

On the floor, in the gap between the door was a thin, scorched arm. It was contorted and twisted, the muscles seizing up from extreme heat. Somehow, its owner had managed to damage the doors and the chain enough to force apart a centimetre-wide gap. The arm was small, far too small. George felt his knees grow weak, and he shook his head in horror.

“Sweet blessed Light.” The hunter silently crossed himself.

“Why?” George asked softly.

“Children can be difficult. Hard to feed, hard to profit. We’re far from any cities where they could quickly sell them. Or perhaps it was to send a message.” Rocque’s voice was as soft and emotionless as ever. George took in a deep breath, forcing down the rising urge to vomit.

“Right. Let’s go. They need to know what we’re dealing w-“

Bruno’s growl suddenly erupted into a ripsaw snarl, and the houndsmaster instinctively grabbed Rocque, forcing him down. The bounty hunter’s complaint was immediately silenced when a bullet slammed into the door in a burst of splinters and dust, right where his head had been a second before. His survival instincts immediately took over: he began running around the corner of the barn, the master and his hound directly behind him. In the distance there was another echoing crack, and George spat out a curse as he felt a burning impact below his knee. Rocque dragged him the rest of the way and they settled behind the firm barn walls, resting for a second in the sudden silence. George gingerly felt where he had been hit: the wound was steadily oozing blood, but it hadn’t hit anything major. He immediately reached for his satchel, extracting bandages while his dog whimpered. Rocque had barely reacted in any way, and as George continued his rough aid, he looked up.

“Did you see him?”

Rocque shook his head. “No, but I know where he’s coming from. Bullet hit dead-on, he was right behind us. On the bridge.”

George chuckled grimly. “Don’t suppose this is just a friendly misunderstanding?”

“They waited until they had a perfect shot. Your hypothesis is unlikely.” George grinned.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Got a way to distract them?” Rocque was already digging in his bag.

“Of course. Plan?” George slapped his bandage, satisfied that it was secure and got to his feet with a hiss of pain.

“You blind the bastard, Bruno and I’ll kick his teeth in. Good plan?”

Rocque nodded, turning towards the corner.

“Good plan.”

He carefully approached the point of no return. At the edge, he pulled out a small, circular piece of metal that had been polished into a mirror. He held it out, hoping to get a view of the shooter. Instead, another bullet smashed into the mirror, sending it spinning into the dirt. Rocque growled in frustration, then in one, smooth movement, he turned around the corner and hurled what was in his other hand.

A small, grey capsule spun through the air, and then exploded in a blinding flash and a shrieking bang. Rocque had covered his eyes, but the sound still made his ears ring. He felt a slap at his back as George and Bruno charged forward: his hound rocketing forward like a streak of black lightning towards a solitary figure standing on the bridge, trying to reload a long rifle while half-blind.

But halfway to the bridge, another man emerged from one of the abandoned huts in a dead sprint. Dressed in faded green cloth with a thick fur collar, his face was obscured by a hood and an old-fashioned helmet. In his hands were two knives, almost long enough to be called swords. Silently, he charged at George, who was still intent on the man on the bridge.

Rocque didn’t even stop to think. He shook his arm in a practiced move: ropes uncoiled, and a sharpened hook fell neatly into his grasp. He started swinging the hook, once, twice: just as the man leaped forward, both knives aimed at George’s back, he let fly. The hook shot through the air, and past one of the man’s ankles. Rocque immediately yanked the hook back, and it collided with the man’s ankle, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

George ran on heedlessly.

Rocque sighed, and began reeling the man in.

…

The sniper had finished reloading and had just started aiming at George when he was confronted with almost one hundred and twenty pounds of snarling, enraged dog. Bruno clamped his teeth on the sniper’s wrist, who bared his teeth in an animalistic grin. He silently shook back and forth the furiously growling hound, before finally dropping his rifle and grabbing Bruno with both hands. He slammed the dog down into the ground, getting a yelp of pain and surprise in return. The man reached into his coat, pulling out a pistol, and aimed it at the whimpering animal’s head.

“Don’t even bloody think about it!”

George tackled the sniper, slamming him into the ground. He pinned the man under him, raising his club and slamming it into his wrist, forcing him to drop the pistol. Again, the man let out no sound. Instead, a knife materialised in his other hand, and he leaned forward, driving it into George’s side. The old lawman groaned in pain, bending over, and the sniper immediately took the opportunity to headbutt him, sending George stumbling backwards. The man quickly climbed to his feet, retrieved his rifle, and leisurely strolled over to the injured warrior. George glared at him, taking in details: tattered green robes covered in sporadic plates of armour, a wolf’s tail tucked into his belt and a wolf’s head fashioned into a helmet: its dead eyes staring blankly forward, identical to the eyes of the man who wore it. The sniper cocked his head to one side in mock curiosity, aimed, and suddenly jerked backwards. A wounded and limping Bruno had seized him by the ankle, still letting out a stream of muffled growls. George grinned and, ignoring the pain, pulled himself to his knees and dove forward, slamming into the man and sending him off the bridge and into the stream below.

…

Rocque had only just begun pulling on the rope when the man twisted like a fish, instantly severing the hook with one of his knives. He slowly climbed to his feet, his featureless helmet solidly fixed on the bounty hunter. Rocque smiled to himself, respooling the remnants of his rope and pulling his axe out of his belt. The man slowly approached, knives at the ready, then suddenly lunged forward, bringing down one knife in a vicious stab.

Rocque dropped his axe and ducked to one side, his arms up in a boxing guard. He felt the breeze of the knife whistling past his right arm, and in the second the cutthroat was exposed, fired a right hook into his helmet. His leather fist slammed into the man’s helmet and he stumbled backwards, shaking his head. In the same moment, Rocque reached into one of his pouches and pulled out a handful of small, razor-sharp caltrops, tossing them out. When the man recovered and attempted another lunge, he stepped right into the caltrops, slicing through his boot. He bent over in silent agony, and Rocque seized the opportunity, grabbing his axe and bringing it down on the man’s head. But it was a ruse: as the axe descended, the cutthroat suddenly slapped aside Rocque’s hand and lashed out with another knife, slicing up his arm. The bounty hunter hissed in pain, stepping back. The cut was shallow, but even now blood started dripping down to his left hand, making his grip increasingly slippery. The man carefully walked around the caltrops and advanced on Rocque, threatening him with his knives. Rocque stepped backwards, his back to the bridge. The man feinted with one knife, making as if to stab the hunter, then quickly slicing out with his other blade. Rocque clumsily fell back, the knife slashing at his face, damaging the chain mail and nicking his upper lip. He fell into the dust and dirt, crawling backwards. The man just followed him calmly, knives constantly at the ready. Rocque finally froze, and the man immediately moved forward, left hand striking a killing blow.

Which is when Rocque swung his hook, retrieved from where the man had left it, and buried it in the back of the man’s hand. The cutthroat shuddered in surprise, and tried to stab the bounty hunter with his other knife. Rocque reached forward with his now-empty left hand, and seized the man’s uninjured arm in an iron grasp, He grinned at his opponent, teeth bared victoriously.

“Called your bluff, friend.”

With a mighty swing, Rocque’s axe came down and removed the cutthroat’s hand.

…

The rifleman fell into the stream, and immediately began to get up. With a roar, George leaped off the bridge and landed on the man’s back, sending him back into the water with a splash. His wounds screamed at him, but the old lawman brushed them off: He seized the back of the man’s head and slammed his face into the pebbles at the bottom of the stream. He snarled, his words thick and almost imperceptible.

“Burning children, you bastards?” He pulled the struggling man’s head out of the water, and then slammed it into the floor again. “Taking people from their homes? Murdering the innocent?” His growl had slowly transformed into a roar of frustration and rage.

“Did you think you’d get away with it? You think there isn’t any kind of justice out here, any kind of law? Well here I am, boy. You understand?” He punctuated each word with another slam, grinding the man’s face against the floor. “I. Am. The law!” He leaned on the man’s head, keeping it submerged in the water, gritting his teeth as the man wriggled to get free and all of his new cuts burned. Eventually, the man’s struggles grew weaker, and finally his chest jerked twice and he fell still. George slowly clambered up, his muscles aching, and spat at the body. He gingerly climbed up the banks of the stream, leaving the body in the water, a wolf tail gently trailing in the current.

At the bridge Bruno limped over, wagging his tail and letting out a squeaking bark of happiness. The houndsmaster scratched his head, digging his fingers deep into the fur, and winced as the madly wagging tail repeatedly thumped into his fresh wound. He patted Bruno twice, then moved back into the village, then froze at the scene that greeted him.

Rocque stood in the centre of an ever-widening pool of blood, calmly bandaging one of his arms. At his feet lay an outstretched body, one arm’s hand bearing a gaping hole through the middle, the other arm missing a hand entirely. The maimed arm continued to spurt out blood, adding to the pool. The bounty hunter noticed George’s approach, and waved.

George gestured at his surroundings with horror. “Who the hell is that?”

Rocque shrugged. “Someone who wanted to kill you.”

“Oh. Ah.” George scratched at his beard. “Guess he gave you no trouble, eh?”

Rocque finished tying the bandage, and set to cleaning his hook. His voice was as dry as ever.

“Evidently.”

George kneeled, examining the body and noting the wolf fur collar in particular. It seemed they were dealing with a theme.

“Don’t suppose your man said anything? Mine wasn’t exactly talkative.” Rocque shook his head.

“No, not a word. Nor a sound, grunt, anything. Somewhat disconcerting. I see you had no trouble with your man either?” George grinned.

“Ah, Bruno did most of the work. Praise the stalwart hound, eh?” The hound perked up at the sound of his name and trotted over, happily licking his master’s bearded cheek. Rocque just stared.

“Indeed.”

George smiled and stood up, then winced, clutching at his side. Rocque gestured with his head.

“Do you need help?” George waved him off.

“Nah, let’s just head home. Doctor’s can take a look at me and Bruno.  And anyways, “he let out a pained, wheezing laugh, “I’ve had worse.”

Rocque looked back at the abandoned village, and the bodies they had left behind.

“I don’t doubt it.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter.
> 
> Sorry for the delay, a combination of a massive workload and a wicked case of food poisoning forced me to take a week's break. With any luck, this will be the only one.
> 
> Again, I just want to stress how important comments are. Every time I write, I'm trying new things, trying to figure out what works and what doesn't. And it would really help the process if I had other voices coming in and adding their own two bits: it's easy to lose track of mistakes or genuinely good writing when you're doing it all on your own.
> 
> But again, most importantly, I just hope you enjoy the story. See you on the 4th.


	4. Nightmares and Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A corpse tries to live, and two guests prepare for the future.

A dead woman opened her eyes. She leaned slightly forward from the corner where she had spent the night, and placed her hand on the floor, stretching out her fingers. She focused completely on the stone underneath her, feeling every aspect. Cold, still and hard, smoothened by the passage of a thousand feet. She sat there, taking it in, making sure that the pulse she felt was her own, that any movement she detected was her own twitching fingers. Finally satisfied, she slowly stood up, brushing at her robes, when came a knocking at the door.

“Sister Hendry? Are you awake?”

Hendry’s heart raced, and sweat begin to streak down her back. One hand had instinctively grasped her mace, now permanently at her side, while the other hand reached up, shielding her face. She waited, poised.

“Sister? May I come in?”

Hendry licked her lips nervously, tasting salt. She opened her mouth, and her words came out in a croak.

“What, who are you?”

There was a pause behind the door.

“It’s Sister Russell. I was hoping you would join us for afternoon prayers.”

Hendry’s eyes twitched.

“No.” There was silence behind the door again, then Russell quietly spoke.

“Sister, would you please let me in.”

Hendry stood frozen, her hand nervously rubbing at the handle of her mace. Finally, she took in a breath, and started unlocking the door. Five intricate locks and one heavy throw-bar later, the door slowly creaked open.

Russell was unusual among the vestals: eternally cheerful, with round cheeks and a grin seemingly designed to raise spirits. It was no wonder that she had appointed herself responsible for Hendry’s reintroduction to humanity: as a firm follower of the Light, Russel was determined to spread her joy to everyone she knew, believer or not. An attitude that had been greeted with warm welcome, cold indifference or on one memorable occasion, a hurled axe from a surly barbarian.

Now she stood at Hendry’s door, and she smiled softly. Her hands, which she had been nervously folding together, disappeared into her robes and she bowed. When Russell raised her head again, she was greeted by a blank expression.

“Sister, I understand that you have gone through great trials, but I would still-“

“You understand nothing.” Hendry began to close the door.

“Hendry, please. Come with me to mass, talk to our sisters, to Father Norbert. Let the Light into your heart, to scare away the shadows within. Find some peace.” Again, she smiled, and as Hendry watched, her soft, round cheeks slid to the floor, exposing pale bone and red flesh underneath. Her left eye became distorted, one corner extending and then bursting as a spiked tentacle pushed out, waving in the air and dripping with ichor. Her other eye took on an oily sheen, the soft brown turning black and reflective, the pupil rapidly expanding. The monstrous apparition cocked its head to one side, tentacle swinging loosely from one eye socket.

“Sister Hendry?”

The vestal blinked, one hand squeezing the door so tightly it began to splinter. Russell stood in front of her, kind features arranged in a look of concern. Hendry took in a deep breath, forcing down the scream that had threatened to come bubbling out of her throat.

“I will come to the church, Sister Russell. Just, please, grant me a moment to wash-up and tidy my room.” Russell looked past Hendry to eye the dusty bed, its sheets neatly folded and in order. She sighed, and immediately returned to her usual cheer.

“Of course, Sister. I can’t wait to see you there.” She bowed again then set down the corridor, the rapid tapping of her feet accompanied by her quietly humming a hymn.

Hendry slowly pushed the door shut and fell where she was standing, sitting on the floor. She wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face in them.

 

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“So a crazy man runs in, shrieking about impending hordes of vicious bandits, and collapses. Now what do we do?”

“Don’t know why you keep asking me these questions,” Poussin grumbled, sending another bolt downrange. Vatteville shrugged, taking another bite out of his apple.

“You are a hardbitten military woman, I am merely a fleabitten rascal.  You are wise beyond your years and a veteran of countless battles: I therefore seek your wisdom.”

Poussin smirked, cranking her crossbow and loading another bolt. “You sure know how to charm a woman.”

“You have no idea, “ said Vatti through a mouthful of apple, “but please keep your mind to the subject at hand.  I appreciate your attention, but I am more concerned with the attentions of angry men with sharp blades.” Poussin fired again, the bolt whistling down the range and slamming just a centimetre above the bullseye. She grunted in irritation, placing the crossbow on a table littered with additional bolts.

The shooting range had been overgrown and strewn with rubbish when Poussin had found it: it hadn’t taken long for her to tidy the field, replace the limp and damaged targets, and set up tables for ammunition and calibrations.  Now it was one of her favourite parts of the hamlet, apart from the tavern and the blacksmith. She peered over the crossbow, humming to herself and gently strumming the crossbow strings. When one sang at a different tune to the other, she smiled and reached for her pliers. “You know, Vatti,” she said, tightening the crossbow’s string, “the focus of your affectons doesn’t exactly surprise me.”

Vatteville held a hand up to his chest in mock outrage. “Madame, your surprise is not my concern, nor is the many, many lurid experiences I have gathered over the years. Perhaps, in a happier time, I may have offered a beer or two to these rapscallions and our evening would have gone to a far more pleasant place. Alas, it was not meant to be. Now, “ he tossed the core to one side, “do you actually have a plan? Or will we still be bickering while our throats are slit?”

Poussin strummed the string again, satisfied. She loaded a quarrel, aimed, fired. The bolt struck home: a perfect bullseye. She smiled, reaching for another quarrel, and spoke over her shoulder.

“Still don’t know why you’re asking me. The boss man makes the plans.” Vatteville rolled his eyes.

“I’m aware, but our employer calls on us to advise him. Surely you already have some ideas? “

Again, Poussin lifted the crossbow, holding it at her waist. As heavy as it was, it was impossible to put her eyes to the sights. Instead, she had practiced again and again, learning to set her arms and ensure that the bolt would go exactly where it she intended it to. Though in the early days her aim had been extremely poor, it was worth it for a weapon that could put a bolt through inches of steel armour.

 The day was unseasonably warm, and she had left her armour at the smithy. Dressed in a shirt and rough cotton trousers, her tanned arms gleamed in the sunlight, bulging with muscle. Again she set her arms, one holding the crossbow’s handle and keeping it firm, the other serving as both rudder and trigger-finger. She took in a deep breath, and slowly let it out. Halfway through, she paused, and in that moment of perfect calm and steel grip, fired. There was a soft whistle, and the bolt smashed through the previous quarrel in the bullseye, shattering it into pieces.

The arbalest grinned, placing her weapon back on the table, then leaned forward, roughly tousling Vatteville’s hair, making the short black hairs stick up in every direction.

“Don’t worry, little bandit. I always have a plan.”

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Hendry stepped into the abbey, leaving behind the sun for cool, tinted light and flickering candles. The room was filled with quiet noises: whispers, the rustling of clothing and footsteps as churchgoers, both guest and villager, found their places. Despite herself, she began to relax in a place that was home to her: All she could remember, all these years later, was the church. As a young, impetuous girl, her parents had despaired and sent her away, so that she could find the Light as well as a place in the world. Now, standing in the foyer with shaking knees, she wondered if her parents even still lived.

Near the end of the hall, Father Norbert stood tall, the Book of Light tightly gripped in his hands as always. He smiled and ducked his head as Hendry walked in, his bald spot shining.  He placed the Book on the lectern and coughed, and so the room began to settle. Villagers sat in neat rows, crusaders and vestals alike found their places and kneeled, their armour quietly clinking. At the very first pew, two men sat quietly. One was massive, a titan of a man dressed in tattered white robes and dull, bronze armour. The other was his opposite in every way: a small, shrivelled man, cloaked and hooded in brown rags. As Norbert opened the Book, they kneeled simultaneously.

The room fell silent. The only sounds were the occasional fizz as a candle flickered, the gentle breathing of all those in attendance, and the occasional muffled sound from the outside world.

Norbert smiled, and began to speak.

“Blessed friends, may peace find its way to your hearts this day. In our eternal struggle against the darkness, let us all feel recognized and loved for the parts we have played, and will continue to play. Every one of us, from the most determined farmer to the fiercest warrior, is equally loved and cared for by the Light. Every one of us, has a part to play in the Light’s vision. Remember this, when the darkness grows and when you feel alone and fearful. You are never alone. The Light shines upon you, and your brothers stand by you. Now, let us pray.” The young priest cleared his throat and bowed his head. The smell of incense gently drifted through the air, and Hendry closed her eyes, pressing her lips against her folded hands.

“Incandescent Light, we thank you for your goodness to us this morning, for the birdsong that lifted our hearts, for the nourishment and comfort of food and drink, and for the time spent with family and friends in fellowship. Continue to guide us, along this path to wisdom-“

_I WAS LORD OF THIS PLACE, BEFORE CROWS AND RATS MADE IT THEIR DOMAIN. AND I WILL BE AGAIN._

Hendry’s spine froze, but she kept her eyes closed, her face against the palms. Her prayers became more urgent, her whispers more frenzied.

_ARE YOU ASHAMED, HENDRY? ASHAMED OF WHAT YOU HAVE COME TO KNOW? ASHAMED THAT YOU SURVIVED WHERE OTHERS DID NOT?_

“You’re not real.” She whispered into her clenched fist.

_I AM AS REAL AS THE STARS IN THE SKY, AND THE BEINGS THAT MOVE BETWEEN THEM. I AM AS THE REAL AS THE EARTH BENEATH YOUR FEET, AND THE LIFE THAT GROWS WITHIN. COME. SEE THE TRUTH AS IT IS._

Hating herself, Hendry opened her eyes.

Standing in the middle of the pews, surrounded by kneeling worshippers, was a man. He was tall, almost inhumanly so, and his silhouette was boldened by a long, sweeping coat. Once, his clothes were a rich red. Now time and rot had drained the colour from the cloth, leaving them a dull, rusted brown like old blood. He stood with his arms behind his back, one hand clasping the other, like an old man proudly watching over his children.  His beard was grey, and his hair was finely swept back.

He turned to look at Hendry, and his eyes were shrouded in darkness. Under each brow there was nothing but shadow, a shadow that seemed to draw you in, deeper and deeper.  His face was old, but stately, radiating strength and elegance. He smiled, and it was the smile of a corpse: bare, grey teeth, with no joy or humour behind it.

_YOU CANNOT LOOK, HENDRY. BUT NOR CAN YOU LOOK AWAY.  THERE WILL NEVER BE PEACE FOR YOU, NOT EVEN ON YOUR DYING DAY. YOU HAVE COME TO MY HOME, AND WHEN YOU LEFT, YOUR SOUL REMAINED._

She shook her head, mouthing words.

_BUT DO NOT FEAR. YOU WILL NOT BE ALONE. THE TIME WILL COME WHEN ALL WILL JOIN YOU._

“No.” She said, quietly.

_I WILL SET OUT FROM MY BIRTHPLACE, AND EVERY STRIDE WILL CARRY ME TO ANOTHER NATION. I WILL WRAP MY ARMS AROUND THE WORLD, AND EVERY MAN, WOMAN AND CHILD SHALL BE SAFE WITHIN MY GRASP. THERE WILL BE PEACE, WHEN WE ARE ALL PART OF THE SAME, BEATING, FLESH._

“Please. No.”

_YOU FEAR IT, BUT YOU WILL NOT LEAVE THIS WORLD. BECAUSE WHENEVER YOU CLOSE YOUR EYES, YOU COME HOME. YOU COME TO WHERE THE FLOORS AND WALLS AND CEILINGS PULSE AND SHIFT, WHERE EVERYTHING RUSHES TO EMBRACE YOU AS A WARM FRIEND. YOU FEAR THAT IF YOU WERE TO DIE, YOU WOULD RETURN, AND YOU WOULD NEVER LEAVE AGAIN._

“Please, please stop.” Her voice was raising, but she didn’t care.

_ONE WAY OR ANOTHER, YOU WILL COME HOME. YOU AND ALL OF HUMANITY WILL RETURN, WILLING OR UNWILLING, TO WHERE YOU BEGAN. COME HOME, HENDRY._

The Ancestor’s grin widened, and his skin grew tight around his skull. The darkness in his eyes seemed to grow, dripping from the sockets down his cheeks. His skin started to flake away, and his shadow seemed to grow and change into something else, something monstrous.

_COME HOME, COME HOME, COME-_

“No!” She screamed.

The room fell silent. Norbert stared at her in shock, his book forgotten on the vestal. The villagers whispered among themselves, radiating fear and worry. Amongst the guests, Hendry felt Russell’s concerned eyes upon her. At the front, the armoured giant slowly turned, fixing her with an indecipherable look.

Crying, Hendry fled the abbey.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The church makes for a good vantage point. Its bell tower watches over the whole of the hamlet. Stick me up there with enough ammo, and I could remove a good half of any attacking army.” Poussin sat at the table, drinking heavily from a flask. Finished, she wiped the sweat off her brow and stood up, wiping her hands on her trousers.

Vatteville nodded, stroking his chin. “And if they get to the tower?”

The arbalest frowned. “Well, I assumed that all the other guests would be fighting as well. Am I wrong?”

Vatti shrugged, standing up from the bench. “Maybe I’ll find something more entertaining to do.”

“Sure you will”. Poussin reached for her crossbow, and stopped when she heard a quiet cough.

Turning, she saw the caretaker, the cracked old man that somehow managed to keep the estate running. He giggled quietly, waving with one long-fingered hand. Or was it just shaking? Always hard to tell with him. Poussin’s eyebrows knitted together.

“What is it?”

The caretaker bowed deeply. “Mistress Poussin, Masters George and Rocque have returned from their expedition. My Lord would have you meet with him, to discuss further strategies.” The woman nodded, retrieving her crossbow and slinging it over one shoulder.

“I’ll be right there.” She turned to the highwayman, who was eyeing the caretaker suspiciously. “Are you coming with me?”

Vatteville stroked his chin, looking deep in thought.

“I thought I would continue to write my memoirs. The Highwayman’s Tale. Filled with swashbuckling adventure, romance and wisdom. Perhaps these bandits are avid readers, and the idea of murdering a budding young writer would postpone the slaughter. “

Poussin grinned, then put on a serious face and gave the man a stern nod. “An excellent tactic, Master Vatteville. I bid you the best of luck.”

Vatti bowed low, his arm going up in a complicated flourish. “I appreciate your honesty, Mistress Poussin. Should my grand strategy fail, I’m sure whatever plan you and the boss will cook up should more than suffice.”

Poussin waved him off, and then set up the hill to the tavern, leaving the range behind.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another weekend, another chapter. Thank you so much for the comments and kudoses, they always help with motivation and to keep improving my writing. In time, I'd like to go back and edit the whole story again, to try and improve however I can. 
> 
> As always, your thoughts are appreciated. It's always interesting to hear what other people think of my writing. In the meantime, enjoy, and I'll see you on the 11th!


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